


Not Enough

by shadesofhades



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Episode: s01e17 Sometimes You Hear the Bullet, M/M, Past Hawkeye/Tommy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 06:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17278568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/pseuds/shadesofhades
Summary: Hawkeye grips the zipper of the bag with shaking fingers and slowly pulls, the teeth parting to reveal the waxy face that lies beneath.





	Not Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/gifts).



> Written in response for a ask prompt on Tumblr that ended up way too long.
> 
> Prompt was angsty scene with Piercintyre.

Hawkeye grips the zipper of the bag with shaking fingers and slowly pulls, the teeth parting to reveal the waxy face that lies beneath.

It still feels like a punch in the gut to see him like this, his face peaceful and clean, so different from the suffering that he had seen hours before -- at least the suffering had proved he was alive, proved there was still a chance to save him.

His heart aches as he reaches out and touches the cold cheek, his fingers trailing over his features in a gentle caress as he remembers what he had looked like, smiling and full of life, with a laugh on his lips. His finger catches the bottom lip and he remembers quick puffs of air against his skin, flushed cheeks and smiles he felt more than saw.

He shouldn't be here.

The ambulance will come tomorrow morning to take away the wounded who could travel, then the wounded who no longer needed to. It's a grim thought, one that has passed his mind before, but it has never stuck, not like this. Although it's never sat well with him, loading the bodies of young men into the back of the truck and closing those doors on their lives prematurely lost has never been so personal. It's never hurt like this before. 

He stares down at the closed eyelids, studying the lines around them that he's never noticed before, and wonders what else he's missed that he'll never know.

After tomorrow, he will never see his face again, and the mysteries it holds will be forever lost to him.

The wounded had petered out just hours ago, and even though he's barely surviving on the last dregs of caffeine in his system, he stays, because he knows sleep won't come. Not without the pain and confusion in his eyes staring at him, face splattered with dirt and war, blood and life seeping from the wound that is cut wide across his torso.

He won't be able to sleep for a long time without feeling the guilt that he died while Hawkeye lived, the guilt that he died and it was his fault. If he had been a better doctor, if he hadn't needed to make one last joke, if he had been just a little quicker.

He shouldn't be here. Neither of them should, but here they are anyway.

Hawkeye settles down on the wooden floor, the planks cold and unyielding beneath him, as cold and unyielding as his face beneath Hawkeye's gaze. He tries to conjure up happy times they had together, tries desperately to remember the sound of his laugh and the way his smile was wide and mischievous and always made Hawkeye's stomach do flips.

But the only thing his mind can conjure is the image of his prone body and the still silence of the tiny storage room, stuffed full of medical supplies and the few they couldn't save. They didn't have a morgue, didn't have a place where they could store the bodies with the dignity they deserved, instead they were stuffed in between rows of tongue depressors and penicillin, like unwanted, used up objects whose purpose has already come and gone and maybe had never come at all.

Should he write his parents? He would normally do that for any of the young men he couldn't save. He'd write a letter of condolence if he could, if they had someone back home, waiting for them to come home wondering why instead of the boy they hoped would become a man, they instead found a coffin stamped US Army.

But, somehow he didn't know if he could explain to them how sorry he is, how out of all the casualties he's seen, their son will haunt him in a way none of the others have. How could Hawkeye explain what their son meant to him, how much it had torn him apart to watch him on that operating table and know he was too late. 

How could Hawkeye explain that the last thought he had while watching him die was a memory of low light, the feeling of satisfaction and joy as they lay together, and his eyes closing as he nodded off, a smile on his lips. How is he supposed to tell them what their son meant to him without telling them that when his eyes closed that last time that he had felt as if a piece of his soul had been ripped away.

“Hawk? Are you in here?”

The voice startles him out of his dark thoughts and Hawkeye turns to look at Trapper, framed in the doorway by a stream of light entirely too bright and cheery for how he feels.

Even if he didn't speak, Hawkeye could recognize that silhouette anywhere, the tower of long, lean muscle, long legs and the familiar curly hair that makes his heartbeat slow and fast at the same time. 

“I'm not in the mood to play doctor, Trap,” Hawkeye tells him, letting out a shaky breath even as he's surprised at how calm his voice sounds, although it's stretched tight with emotion.

“If you were I'd be a little worried about you were playing it with,” Trap jokes, but he doesn't laugh and Hawkeye lets the joke land flat in the thick air of the room. 

He doesn't acknowledge Trapper again, doesn’t invite him in or turn him out, just turns back to stare down at Tommy's face, slack and colorless and so, so still. 

Trapper must be as exhausted as him, but he doesn't leave, instead he comes in and closes the door with a soft click, his boots heavy against the floor in the absolute quiet that engulfs the room, then he drops down beside Hawkeye like it's the most natural thing in the world. 

It isn't until Trapper pulls him close -- his boney shoulder digging into the wide expanse of Trapper's chest as a strong arm is thrown over his shoulders -- and touches his cheeks with life warmed fingers that Hawkeye even realizes he's been sitting in the dark, staring at the body of his friend who was so much more and crying. 

There's the barest hint of shame that blushes hot across his face, but it flees when Trapper brushes a kiss against his hair and squeezes his arm in reassurance. 

They sit there together for awhile, until Hawkeye's eyes have dried, and his throat no longer feels constricted, a rare moment of silence drifting between them before Trapper breaks it.

“Tell me about him, Hawk,” Trapper whispers and Hawkeye understands that it's not an invitation for him to tell anecdotes about his childhood friend, there would be time for that later, when the wounds were not so fresh, but a chance to talk about something he can't with anyone else; a chance to talk about _them_ , about what Tommy really meant to him.

There's always been an easiness between him and Trapper, an understanding that they never need to be anyone other than themselves between them, warts and all, and Hawkeye has never appreciated that as much as he does in this moment. 

“We were fourteen the first time,” Hawkeye starts, his voice sounding rusty and worn as his words stretch and fill the room, and even though he knows there's no one to hear except him and Trapper and the dead that lie around them, there's the slightest hesitation as the story spills out. He's never talked about this with anyone before, never had anyone to tell or a reason to, but as the words fall from his lips, building with confidence, he starts to feel just a little lighter.

He doesn't know how long he talks, just that Trapper listens quietly and patiently as Hawkeye divulges secrets, memories, adventures, heartache and all the things that Tommy ever was to him, that Hawkeye could never find the words to tell him when he was alive, because that's who they were and as much as it hurts, that's what made them.

“I loved him,” Hawkeye says quietly, his eyes on Tommy's face even as they grow heavy. 

He leans into the warmth of Trapper's body, his arm a tight circle around Hawkeye's shoulders as he runs his fingers through Hawkeye's hair and lays a kiss on his temple. 

“I loved him and I never told him,” Hawkeye repeats, his eyes fighting to stay open even as Trapper's fingers abandon his hair to find their way under his chin, turning his face upwards to stare into his eyes.

He'll never forget that look in Tommy's eyes as the light left them. He'll never forget the sweat and dirt and blood that streaked his face and clung to his skin or the way Hawkeye's stomach had tensed up the moment he knew that he was too late. 

Most of all, he'll never forget the words that went unspoken between them and the regret that followed. 

“Trap, I --”

“I know, Hawk,” Trapper says softly as he lays a barely there kiss against his lips. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at captaincaptaincupcakethings for more MASH things.


End file.
